


and it's not hard (not even close, not even a little, not even at all)

by meega



Category: The Wilds (TV 2020)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Found Family, Post-Bunker, Post-Island, Romance, and they lived happily ever after, for once they're all happy, they have two babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:34:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28519458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meega/pseuds/meega
Summary: They're off the island and now must face what will become of their lives in normal-ass America. But they're together, and they're strong, and they'll find their way through it all.//Toni and Shelby's ups and downs - more ups than downs, honestly -, the family they form on their own and the love they surround themselves with and heal from, basically.
Relationships: Dot Campbell/Mateo, Fatin Jadmani/Leah Rilke, Shelby Goodkind/Toni Shalifoe
Comments: 21
Kudos: 248





	and it's not hard (not even close, not even a little, not even at all)

**Author's Note:**

> It's a Baby AU! TBH it's much more fluff than i think i've ever written before, so if it's awkward or anything, totally my fault, you're allowed to laugh. Enjoy!  
> Also! the song Shelby sings is Chris Stapleton's Nashville, TN and it's slow and totally a recomendation for you to listen to once you get to that scene.

There’s a period of time, once the lot of you get off the island and finally out of that dreaded bunker, once Gretchen and her agents and all those horrible people get arrested, where you don’t speak to anyone. Anyone besides Martha, of course.

You’re in between legal paperwork, and lawyer appointments, and therapists, and social workers, and it’s exhausting all on its own. Besides, they all went back to their respective states and it’s not like you have the money to even dream of visiting them. You miss them, and you miss _her_. But you force yourself to give her time to adjust, space to do whatever she thinks is best. You talked before you got separated, you gave her Marty’s house’s phone number, in case she ever wanted to talk. You understand what she’s going through, you’d helped her so far, but you knew that what was to come was hard, so you took a step back, giving her all the signs that it was okay to reach out, but it was also okay to take her time, deal with her stuff, and that you’d be there waiting at the end, or whenever she’d need you.

You receive the call exactly three and a half weeks later, on a Tuesday.

She’s moved out, staying with Dot for the time being. She’s good, she says, and she’s hopeful, and your heart swells with the smile you hear in her voice, with the calmness with which she explains everything. But you’re in Minnesota and she’s still in Dallas, so you don’t get your hopes up.

You keep in touch all throughout the year. With her and with the rest, of course. And when summer comes and you finally graduate from high school, you surprise her with a bouquet of flowers at her front door, the money for the plane ticket coming from endless nights sweeping shops and waiting tables and the odd interview some local channels still asked for, even a year after. And Martha’s mom, of course, who insisted on paying at least half of both, yours and Martha’s tickets.

You’re inseparable after that.

Fatin’s moved to L.A., just like she’d envisioned. She spends most of her time and money investing on start-ups, stock markets, and antiques she then sells. You’re not sure if it’s all legal, but she makes a ton of money she then uses to send you all gifts, so you’re happy. _I’m a goods provider_ , she insists every time there’s a package at any one of your doors and you call her to thank her, _it’s what goods providers do._

Leah went back to her parents who spent the year trying to make it up to her, sending her to therapy, buying her things, and so forth, but you don’t think Leah ever forgave them. You’re not sure. After she graduates, she moves to L.A. with Fatin and enrolls in a community college to study English Lit. and she looks happy.

Dot finishes school along with Shelby and, unable to resist Fatin and Leah’s pull, she moves to L.A. a few months later, leaving the apartment in Dallas to Shelby’s name. There, she starts working at a local hardware store. She quickly becomes very good friends with the owner who, soon enough, turns her into the manager.

Rachel and Nora return to New York with their parents. Together, they apply to UCLA and, together, they get accepted. Rachel gets in through a diving program that – even if it’s nothing compared to Stanford’s – is still diving and she’s happy to be able to continue the sport she learned to love even without the competition’s aspect of it. And they don’t even blink at her missing hand. And Nora, well, she’s planning on double-majoring on psychology and physics, maybe, or something just as complicated. You’re not sure and you’re scared to ask at this point.

Martha talks you into following their leads one evening in Dallas. She’s planning on studying veterinary and she’s insisting there’s a college in L.A. that’s got the best program in the world but that, without you, she won’t be able to go. You see right through her story, but you humor her. Begrudgingly, you propose the idea to Shelby. You wouldn’t go anywhere without her, not once you’ve just gotten her back.

She’s hesitant at first. Her family’s in Dallas, and, even if they still hate her, she’s not ready to leave, to cut it all so definitely, to put such distance between them and herself. Not yet. She’s also taken up a summer job at a small café and it’s going well. So, you wait till Autumn comes and, along with it, the three of you migrate west.

And it’s nice.

The first year you spend it trying to get your feet under yourselves. Fatin helps, economically speaking. You, Shelby and Martha rent an apartment across the hall from her and Leah and Dot, and you spent almost all your time together. Martha goes to school, and you and Shelby get jobs, she as a waitress at a coffee shop downtown, where all the superficial posers go to write their blogs, and you get a job as a bartender on a small pub down the street. It’s not easy, not even remotely. You get a therapist, and then get a new one, and then another one. You’re not easy, they say, and you know it. every time they turn you down, saying you need ‘different approach’ or ‘someone more experienced’ you think of quitting it. You know you’re angry and moody and difficult. But Shelby insists. You’re glad she insists later one, once you find a fragile looking old lady named Carmen who teaches you how to calm down, how to deescalate your explosions, how to reign the fire inside of you. But you’re all still plagued with dreams and memories, flashbacks, your past coming to haunt you even in the dumbest of moments like in the shower or while _cooking_. There’s lots of crying, and panic attacks, and a few ‘ _I’m dropping out guys, I just can’t take it’_ s but you make it through.

And there’s also good. Fuck, there’s so much good.

Fatin adopts a puppy for Christmas. She calls him Marcus because, _of course_ , and you all take turns babysitting him. Martha starts working at an animal shelter and you change your bartender job for a place manning the register at a flower shop. You stay with Carmen, in therapy. You learn to cope. Not just with the PTSD they diagnose you with, but with the anger, the remorse, the frustration, and the loneliness that you’ve learned to shoulder since before you can remember.

You buy a punching bag and a pair of gloves for when you’re angry. Shelby and Rachel start going out running in the mornings. Fatin has her business, Leah writes, Nora picks up a new hobby every six months – sometimes she surprises the lot of you with hand-knitted sweaters or freshly baked cupcakes, or a drawing of your face – and Dot starts a band with a few guys from the pub you worked at (which in turn turned into the group's designated alcoholic hang-out spot, allowing Dot to meet them in the first place, you’re welcome Dot).

And then Shelby starts singing again.

The first time it happens, you’re still half asleep, face tucked between your pillow and hers, dried-up drool stuck to your cheek. It’s early, too early. But you hear it. Soft notes echoing across the apartment. There’s music and a man’s voice you recognize from all the CDs she tortures you with, _country_ CDs – because CDs are the proper way to listen to _good_ music, Toni – but then there’s another one that overpowers it, soft, sweet, enchanting.

_Yeah, you and me, we've come so far_

You sit up straight and strain your ear trying to listen closely, to drink in the sounds. You pick the closest item of clothing and pull in on – Shelby’s shirt from last night and a pair of boxer briefs – before slowly creeping out of bed, careful not to make even the slightest of sounds.

_You showed me how to write a song  
We wrote some right, we wrote some wrong_

She’d told you she loved singing and she even sung a few songs, usually in the car or during karaoke night, or during those awful nights when her and Martha watched Mamma Mia! and blasted out to every single song, jumping and dancing and urging you to join them while you grumbled and glared, trying your hardest not to smile at the sight of your best friend and your girlfriend bouncing around, glowing with delight. But this is different. This is country, by herself. And her voice sounds amazing, but she also sounds a little melancholic. It’s the first time you’ve heard her like this.

_I was down and out, you let me in  
At times, you were my only friend_

You manage to make it to the hallway before the creaking floorboards of the old apartment give you out.

“Toni?”

The song keeps on playing.

_So long, Nashville, Tennessee  
You can't have what's left of me_

You hurry to her side, hugging her and kissing her neck, “G’morning.” You murmur against soft skin. You’re in the kitchen and she’s preparing coffee and toast, and a bowl of granola, and some fruit, and it’s enough food to feed an army as your stomach growls, ready to ingest it all. She shivers under your touch, giggling before returning the kiss, this time to your lips as you untangle from her.

“You were singing.” You mention. She seems coy about it, her cheeks turning a soft pink. You smile. Her hair’s grown out but it’s still short, down to her chin and messy from last night’s antics. She’s wearing one of your flannel shirts and nothing more and you smile at how lucky you are to have the most beautiful girlfriend in the world.

“Just reminiscing.” Shelby shakes her head as the coffee maker halts and she turns to grab the steaming cup. The song keeps playing on, but you step closer and hug her from behind, swaying slowly to its beat, your hands resting over her stomach, your chin on her shoulder.

“I like it.” you say. Trying to get her to continue, you start humming along to the song. She laughs lightly.

“This was one of my Daddy’s–” her voice falters and you stop humming, “This was one of his favorite singers. But he was also one of my favorites, so I thought it was high time to… to reclaim him.”

_So long, Nashville, Tennessee_

She starts humming and you join her.

_Now you won't miss me when I'm gone  
You're custom made for movin' on_

The mumbling turns to singing, and she turns in your arms, steaming cup of coffee forgotten on the counter.

_And time to time I'll pass you by_

She reaches up to place both hands on your cheeks, thumbs caressing your jaw. You lean into the touch, eyes locked onto hers, green and kind and sorrowful, but also in love.

_Face that I don't recognize  
And who knows, maybe years from now  
You'll be the one I think about_

You sway slowly as one of your hands reaches up to grab hers, the other one on her waist. You pull her close and she rests her head on your shoulder and you hold her as the music plays on.

_But I just can't imagine that  
'Cause I'm not one for lookin' back_

//

During the next summer Martha flies home and one night, as the two of you lay on the couch, tangled into each other, Shelby’s hand lightly scratching your hair as she reads a book and you just watch her, drifting off every now and then; one a quiet night like that she tells you about college. She confesses she’s been looking into theatre programs and that she wants to try it out. You’re ecstatic.

Personally, college was never even a possibility, but you know it was a big deal for Shelby. She was expected to attend, and she herself expected it, too. And then she had to renounce it when her family cut her off as soon as she came back from the island. But you know you’ve got money now, your _own_ money, and so you help her apply for a few scholarships, and you look for a good program, and you make it work. Together.

You become a firefighter two winters later. You know the flower shop is a good job, but you want more. You want to be able to buy her things, to maybe get a car and some fancy vacations, so you look for better jobs. And when you come across the pamphlet, one evening as you’re walking home, you realize there’s nothing else you wish to be. So, you work hard, train yourself, and you apply.

And, like that, the months go by, the years. You heal, together, and you grow. Rachel graduates, and then Shelby, and then Nora too, with her million majors. She announces she’ll be applying to start her PhD and you celebrate with drinks, together. Fatin, Dot and Leah change the apartment into a penthouse and you and Shelby move to a small house somewhere between the suburbs and the mountains. Martha meets a nice guy named Percy who, even if he’s a man and you don’t trust men, is good to her, is kind and considerate and even a little funny. And he _gets_ her in a way you never thought you’d see someone see her. And they move in together and his two dogs and his parrot. Rachel starts working at a local high school as their swimming coach, and Shelby stars on a small play downtown, and then a bigger one, and then she’s cast on a movie about castaways and, instead of cringing at the memories, you all just laugh, attending the premier with proud smiles and palms at the ready for clapping. She’s a star from then on, not like Angelina Jolie, but still. She’s good.

And then Dot and Mateo announce they’re getting married, and suddenly you realize you’re _adults_.

You’re not proud of the way you cry that night.

Shelby finds you as she returns from a meeting late in the evening and you’re curled up in the bed you two share with tears falling down your face, fists clasped tightly around your knees and teeth clenched so tightly you fear you’ll break them. Your knuckles are bruised but you’re proud the only thing you punched was the punching bag that’s followed you throughout your recovery that now lies on the basement floor. Even if you went at it for two whole hours and ended up breaking it at the seams, letting the sand inside pour down onto the floor. She asks what’s wrong, her voice soft and reassuring as she lays down beside you and hugs you.

Because, for a moment you’d forgotten what you though of the future. For a moment, with her, with them, you forgot the misery of a small, angry kid back in Minnesota, who fought an endless battle against a world unyielding, who clung to any semblance of love she could find before it was torn away, who hurt and who hated _so much_. You forgot what she saw, you forgot how she saw herself, and how she saw the world around her, the future. How she believed she wouldn’t live past eighteen, past twenty, who wouldn’t be able to make it work. Who would never find her place, never find _belonging._

You never thought you’d even manage to age out of the system, sure that one day or another one of those foster parents would get you, maybe they’d accuse you of taking something and you’d end up in jail, or maybe a drunk faux-father would decide that day he had too much anger in him and went a little too far with the discipline. Whatever form it was, you were sure there wasn’t a place for you here, yet there you were. A house, a family, a lover.

//

You propose a few years later. She decides to leave the film studios in favor of a teaching position in a school up north, on a small town much like those you grew up in, except this one’s sunny and warm and the streets are new and full of possibilities with her hand in yours, her smile in front of you, her kiss goodnight; and you move there. You buy a ranch on the outskirts and you present her with a ring soon after. It’s a small affair, just those closest, but it’s better than anything you even imagined.

//

“My mom always talked about growing up somewhere like this,” she tells you as you wrap your arms around her. You’re standing on the back porch, admiring the lengths of prairie ahead as the sun sets, setting the long grasses ablaze with its light. The two newly forged bands gleam on your fingers as your hands intertwine. You’ve heard the story a million times but you just hum, letting her continue. You love hearing about her past, good and bad, because it reminds you she trusts you and she wants you to know her fully, no reservations. Past the pretty, past the acceptable, past whatever she’s comfortable showing everyone else.

“Her father was a cowboy, a proper one. And he managed a ranch like this one, back in Texas. He had cows and horses and chickens…”

“You want chickens?” you ask, half-kidding, half-genuinely curious.

She takes a moment before answering, “You wouldn’t be able to look after _a_ chicken, much less a _few_ chickens.”

You laugh, “What about a baby?”

//

You’ve heard the saying about the pregnancy glow or whatever, but you call bullshit until you see her. At first, it’s strange. Her belly’s slightly larger – although you insist she looks as fit and lovely as ever, of course. You wouldn’t dare call her fat. At least not until the sixth or seventh month, you think – and she’s throwing up every morning, and you know absolutely nothing about what to do and how to help and you fuck up a _lot_. But she fucks up too, so you fix it all together.

And she’s literally glowing, magnificent and all smiles and excited songs belted all throughout the day, and you dance together around the living room, her belly bumping into yours as you pull her closer, you heart enlarged by the sheer happiness that little bundle of joy gives you.

She screams at you about the silliest things and you can’t help laughing and teasing until she cracks. But you also catch those screams that aren’t about anything superfluous. The screams and whimpers and heaves and wails that stem from insecurities, from fears and memories of parents she wishes nothing more than to stray as far away from as possible. You can relate. So, you hug her, hold her, and talk her through her fears. You’ve learned, together, how to cope. Carmen’s voice resonating in your mind every time you need her. By now it’s an old ache, the tremors and the memories and the fears that surface every now and then. But you know it’s still there, so you go through the motions together, both knowing how, knowing the steps, the breathing techniques, and yet clinging to each other and helping as much as you can.

There are nights when you stay awake until the sun rises again, her body in your arms as you watch her, her peaceful face, her growing belly. You caress her, hands unsure but soft, careful not to wake her, and you worry. What if you’re not good at it? What if your subconscious has picked up on all those horrible practices you were exposed to while you yourself were a kid? What if you’re just like them, just like all those awful people who had kids for all the wrong reasons? What if you turned out just like your own mother, who succumbed to addictions after the pressures of a kid and no husband, no support, where too much to bear? What if you run away just like your father?

During those nights you talk to her, as Shelby sleeps. You talk to your daughter, and you promise. You promise your fears away, you tell her you’ll be there, always. You don’t notice Shelby’s half-open eyes as they watch you, sleep still clinging to her eyelids; they watch you with tender stealth as you focus on her tummy and you speak your mind, your fears, and your ‘what ifs’; your wishes for the future, your expectations and your hopes. She never tells you she was listening, afraid you’ll never do it again, but she holds the memories close to her chest.

//

She has big, bright green eyes, like hers, and a mop of unruly brown hair, yours. Her nose is round and funny and she laughs every time you bop it. And she’s loud and hyper and she doesn’t like bananas, but she loves avocado. She can’t sleep unless you’re there, her little hand clinging to your finger with a force no newborn should have, but when she wakes up at night, she will only calm down once Shelby’s singing.

Everyone’s there when she’s born and after too, for every single birthday and summer vacation, and spontaneous visits just to see the group’s first child.

For some reason, she instantly takes to Rachel, crying until the woman lets her suck on her prosthetic hand.

Fatin brings her all kinds of outfits, insisting a child as beautiful as her ought to dress accordingly. She gives her a tiara she wears until it breaks after a crash against the dinner table.

Leah reads her bedtime stories she makes up herself and Dot’s the one who gets her to take her first steps one summer evening at the ranch, beside the kiddie pool, her face stained with berries they’d been munching on after play time.

Nora teaches her the most random of facts every time she visits, which is often, and which have Shelby and Toni sharing amused looks as the girl then casually repeats them around the house. They hear about the whales and the bees and Mars and how long a human can survive without water.

You choose Martha as her godmother and she teaches her how to dance, about her people and about her own past, the past you never got to learn at her age.

Her name’s Robin – gender neutral’s the best kind of names, you insist – and she bears your last name, and you can’t believe it as you sign her papers. Because _you_ sign as her mother and Shelby does too. And she’s yours in every sense of the word, yours to raise, and to care for, and to listen to, and to love.

Robin Shalifoe Goodkind.

//

After she says her first word – _Mama?_ – she never stops. And she picks up Shelby’s drawl because _of course_ she would, and she tells you the most fantastic stories as you bathe her before bedtime every night, about treasures and pirates and princesses and dragons. She always asks about her aunt Leah, then, and you assure her she’ll visit soon and then she’ll be able to tell her all the new stories she’s come up with. Leah’s always happy to sit for a full afternoon, just listening to the tiny girl sitting on her lap and narrating incoherent tales where her moms are the heroes, and her aunts are there to help and there’s a spaceship and a cowboy that sings and a dog and so much more.

She’s funny, much funnier that you ever thought a child so small could be. She loves puns and she’s snarky with an attitude that reminds you way too much of yourself – minus the anger, which you’re _so_ thankful for –, and the two of you gang up against Shelby, playing prank wars around the house that always end up in tickles and cuddles on the couch, the reassuring weight of your wife and your child on top of you as you hold them a reminder that life is _good_. And sometimes you want to cry because _what_ did you do to deserve all of this? Sometimes you wonder if the universe made a mistake, giving you the life of a saint instead of the one you were supposed to live.

//

When she turns three Fatin arrives with the ultimate gift. While her other aunts bring toys or a swimsuit – _it’s never too early, Shalifoe,_ argues Rachel – Fatin brings her a cowboy hat that’s a little too big and one of those wooden horses you put between your legs and run around with, and play pretend. And she’s enamored. And Shelby’s snaping pictures while the rest laugh at you because, of course, your daughter had to turn out to be a hillbilly just like your wife.

And she doesn’t take the hat off until she outgrows it, three years later when she begs for a new one. The lady at the store starts calling her Annie Oakley.

She picks up Shelby’s singing organically. She starts imitating the sounds for the first time when she’s about ten months old, and by the time she’s four she’s teaching the lyrics to her favorite songs to her younger ‘cousins’. And her voice is definitely Shelby’s, which you’re thankful for. You’re not that good a singer anyways, but she’s amazing, and Robin’s amazing too.

Dot’s and Mateo’s kids come later, a pair of twin boys two years younger than Robin, and the kid’s ecstatic. When you take her to see them at the hospital, she insists on petting their faces and you have to keep an eye on her so she doesn’t poke theirs.

Leah and Fatin adopt a ten-month-old boy named Amir at the same time Martha has her own baby girl, Alice, and it’s like the two of you opened the possibility for them, because after three short years your monthly get-togethers are suddenly full of diapers and tantrums and bottled milk and none-alcoholic drinks.

Nora gets married and soon after they have a kid she names Quinn, and in spite of your own protests, she names you and Shelby his godmothers.

And, once again, you realize how unlike anything you ever dreamed of your life is. You watch your friends, _your family_ , and you think this is the kind of thing only Hollywood can create. It’s the stuff of movies, it’s the things you saw Shelby play-pretend in the big screen during your youth. _Your youth._ Now you’re just sounding like an old fucking lady.

Because now you’re thirty and you’re still here, still kicking, and no one’s left you, no one’s hit you, no one’s hurt you, and _you_ haven’t hurt anyone, and no one’s died. You’re all there, together, making it work.

Once she’s old enough to understand, you tell her. You tell her about the island, about the things you saw, the things you did, and how it changed you. You explain to her why Mamma doesn’t speak to her Daddy anymore, and why Mommy, why _you_ simply don’t have either a mom or a dad. You explain why some days are harder, why sometimes you cry for no apparent reason, why you spend so much time exercising, controlling the anger that spurs from your insides like an old friend, eager to reconnect. And you tell her about how you met all of her aunties, how you all came together in the strangest, hardest of circumstances, and you survived.

//

The second one’s easier. Slightly.

Rachel’s just gotten married – another teacher from her work, a math’s teacher, conquers her heart at last – when Shelby surprises you with the sonogram.

You’d left the fire station in favor of a job less dangerous the year after Robin was born. You work for one of your neighbors now, helping around with the animals in his ranch, with the farming and the cleaning and it helps you like nothing’s helped before. You feel the remnants of control you so eagerly clenched to in your two frail hands widen, grow. The animals calm you. The hard work, the almost mindless repetition of useful actions, it helps you make sense of the turmoil you’ve carried around for so long. You learn to ride and Shelby’s ecstatic, her dream of dating a cowboy finally coming true. You tell her you’ll never be a cowboy, you’re ojibwe, and she smiles and rolls her eyes and kisses you senseless.

It turns out to be another girl and when you tell Robin, the first thing she asks if she can name her. Throughout the nine months you hear what you think must be a fantasy writer’s dream, every name she mentions even more ridiculous and made-up than the last.

And one day, as you drive your truck to pick up your girls from school, the CD in the stereo jumps and cuts and so you change to some local radio station and the song they play sounds familiar in the way a smell reminds you of when you were five and playing on the street, under the scorching sun.

_So raise your glass if you are wrong, in all the right ways_

And you smile.

//

She’s tiny, smaller than Robin when she was first born, and you worry maybe she’s premature, but the doctor assures you she’s okay. Shelby says she’s like you and you sneer at her.

Her eyes are golden and her hair’s auburn, and she’s got freckles all over her face.

Robin’s jealous at first, you can tell. All the attention suddenly drifting to the natural gravity a newborn baby musters. So, one night, as Shelby sleeps soundlessly on the bed you two’ve shared for over ten years now, and your baby girl rests on the crib beside her, you go and wake Robin up. She’s grumpy and confused, a small hand reaching up to rub her bright little eyes. She’s frowning at you, wanting to go back to bed. But you tell her it’s important and she gets excited. You take her in your arms – she’s still small enough for it to be an easy feat – and you carry her to your room where the crib is. You lean over it and you present the two, and you tell her.

“She’s your little sister,” you tell her, and the eye roll is instantaneous. Everyone’s told her that already. You chuckle, “she’ll love you like no one’s ever loved you.” and you think of Marty, your own sister, “and she’s gonna trust you more than anyone, and she’s gonna want to do everything you do because you’ll be her hero.” But then you also think of your other sisters, “She’s going to help you out when you most need her, and you’re going to help her out, too, because you’ll love her just as much as she loves you.”

You hear her sigh, yawn, and cuddle closer, burying her face into your neck the same way Shelby does, “How do you know?” she asks.

“’Cause I’ve talked to her.” You tell her and she giggles, “She told me she’s anxious to play with you, once she’s big enough, and to talk with you and cuddle and–”

“And sing?” she asks hopeful. You nod, smiling, “Yeah kid, but you’ll have to teach her.” You feel her kick her feet against your stomach excitedly and you shush her before she starts giggling too loudly.

“Can I teach her the boots song?” you nod, “and the Taylor Swift ones?” you nod again, “and the one about the butterflies?”

“Yes, you can teach her all of them.”

“Can we call her Woody, then? Like the one on the movie! Or Willie, like Mamma’s singer!”

“Oh, hell no, Robbie, she won’t be Woody, or Willie.”

“But Mommy!”

As you’re getting back to bed, your eyes aching from exhaustion after a week of newborn duties, you feel Shelby stir beside you.

“Hope I didn’t wake you?” you whisper. She turns to you, wrapping a sleepy hand round your waist and pulling you closer, snuggling into you and inhaling. You do the same, taking in the smell of her skin, her hair, of _her_.

“I love you so much, Toni.” she mutters, eyes closed and lips brushing against your neck, “And they’re ours, yours and mine. We made them.” Her voice is full of delight and disbelief, and she giggles.

You hum in response, a huge smile spreading throughout your face as you pull her incredibly closer still.

//

You call your second borne Josephine. Josephine Shalifoe Goodkind. Joey for short. But Robin gifts her her old cowboy hat and calls her Willie because she’s so stubborn it’s frustrating so, soon enough, the baby only answers to the cheery ‘Willie, Willie!’ of your first borne, and you and Shelby give in.

Willie’s small, smaller than Robin, but what she lacks in stature she makes up in attitude, since the beginning. Shelby glares at you every time the kid starts a tantrum or talks back. You just shrug and smile. That’s _all_ yours, you know that, but it’s unavoidable. Robin was strong headed, yes, but Willie’s on another level completely. and she’s a storyteller, too, but she also adores sitting and listening to her sister’s stories and how she plays them out on a little puppeteer set Fatin bought her a few years back. And she’s a singer just like the two of them – country, again – but unfortunately, she inherits your voice, not Shelby’s. She still sings though, of course, and she loves it even if its raspy and a little out of tune.

She gets diagnosed when she’s three, ASD, more on the functional side of it, but still, the doctor says. You think of Nora and it makes sense, to you. Willie’s distracted and fuzzy and when she learned about the horses you work with, she was _obsessed_. You don’t give it much thought, but Shelby panics.

“What’ll we do when she has to go to school?” she asks one night as the two of you lay in bed, your head on her chest as she plays absentmindedly with your curls, “What if she can’t do it? What if they make fun of her? Kids can be _awfully_ mean, you know that.”

You lean back and raise your face to hers, so you can look into her eyes. The strong light of a full moon comes in through the window and illuminates her radiant face in a way that highlights all the soft curves of her cheeks, her eyebrows, her lips, her jaw. You kiss her, slowly and purposefully.

“We love her.” You mutter, thinking back on your own past, thinking about all the other troubled kids. Most had some kind of condition, be it being in the autistic spectrum like Willie, or being ADHD, or dyslexic, or OCD, or even just being labeled ‘troubled kids’ like yourself. “She’s got us, and her sister who’ll always be there to support her, to be her best friend. She’ll be okay. What comes, we’ll handle it. Just like we’ve handled everything so far. I trust you, Shelby. And besides, she’s our kid, whoever she turns out to be, I don’t think I’ve got it in me to be scared about something that could be good. _She_ ’ll be good. Besides, she’d a _Goodkind_ , isn’t she?”

She smiles at the familiar words and then snorts at the horrible pun, pushing you off of her.

“Get out, I was tryin’a be serious Toni.”

“And so was I!”

You climb back closer and lay down beside her, not close enough to be touching but close enough to look into her eyes again, the moon shining off of them, “She’ll be fine. We’ll help her as much as we can, but she’s strong.”

“I don’t want her to need to be strong.” She mutters, eyebrows pulling together as she reaches for your hand. You squeeze her fingers and smile.

“I know you don’t.” _But there’s things that even parents can’t protect you from_ , you think with an ache in your heart, but you don’t say it. Instead, you reach out and hug her. You fall asleep entangled into one another, worries not far, but also not so close as to suffocate you, not like they used to when you were a kid.

//

Willie’ll be starting school next autumn now. You’ll get a handful just out of explaining to her teachers that she’ll only respond to Willie, not Joey or Josephine, and that she needs to eat PB&J’s for lunch and that she won’t eat apples, and that she doesn’t like people touching her, and that she’s a little rough on the playground with other kids just like Robin and yourself, and that her favorite thing in the world is her older sister’s stories and games, and horses, and basketball.

(You introduced her to the sport by accident, when you were cleaning out some boxes in the garage and you found your old high school shirts and she asked about them. Now she’s obsessed, getting a small plastic hoop for Christmas and absolutely killing it with the triple shots, and you’re in love. But then again, you’ve always been in love.)

You wonder how it’ll go.

Then again, it was the same thing when Robin started, you remind yourself. She got sent to the principal’s office twice on her first week because she wouldn’t settle down for nap time.

But of course, you’re nervous and fearful, just like Shelby, except you tend to hide it. Old habits die hard and vulnerability’s still not your strongest suit, but you also want to be there for Shelby. You want to be the steady rock for her to climb onto when the seas get a little too rough. So, in your spare time, you investigate. Your first instinct is to call Nora and she’s amazing. She’d been close to Willie since the start and when she got diagnosed, she was the first you two contacted, but now, she helps you with academic papers and therapy groups and resources, and you listen, albeit a little overwhelmed, but trying.

She’ll be starting first grade and Robin’ll be starting fourth – fourth grade! Your kid! –, and you don’t really know what to expect from it all, but it’s okay, you think. Shelby’s by your side, even after all these years – you joke about it, saying she hasn’t left you only because of all the information you’ve got on her, because of all the dirt you could spread about her – and you’re _happy._

This year it’s your turn to host Christmas, too, so you’re excited to see your family all together again and see all your little gremlins mingling, getting up to no good.

Robin’s definitely the ringleader, being the oldest, but you have a suspicion that Quinn and Willie are the true geniuses, hiding from the larger group and stealing food from the kitchen while the adults aren’t watching.

Yeah, you think, you never imagined making it past eighteen, past twenty, past anything. You never imagined someone saying _, ‘I pick you, deliberately, for the rest of my life’._ You never imagined you’d be the one someone called for after a nightmare, or someone who prepared their favorite meal. But you’re here and even if it’s still scary as fuck, you’re got the best person you could imagine by your hand, you’ve got love, and you’ve got family so, in the end, it’s not that hard at all, not even close, not even a little, not even at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to the '10 things i hate about you' writers for that final line, I just had to. And also thanks to toobiesttop on Tumblr who gave me the prompt! BTW, hallelujah99 wrote the idea of a Shoni baby first (this prompt actually stemmed from a comment i did on their fic) so do pleaaase check theirs out too! The link to their collection of works is here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088612 go give them some love, little Isla's just too adorable not to!  
> ALSO it's Willie as in Willie Nelson, the guy who sings 'On the Road Again' and 'Georgia on my Mind' and i headcannon he's one of Shelby's favourite singers. Fight me.
> 
> If you've got any ideas or prompts or just wish to scream about The Wilds together, come visit me on tumblr at yourstrullyme, I'm always happy to chat!


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